Earning my words...

Something’s been clicking lately. I’ve been posting more videos on Instagram and YouTube, talking to the camera like I’m talking to one of my clients, my wife, my kids, or even to myself when I need to hear it most. I didn’t set out to be a motivational speaker, but I’ve lived some things. And now I’m trying to give back whatever wisdom I’ve earned along the way.

What I didn’t expect was how much I’d learn by doing it.

Trying to speak with purpose forced me to reverse engineer what I’ve been chasing in my writing. Things I couldn’t quite get out on the page started making sense when I said them out loud. And now I’m going back, rewriting, reshaping, retraining myself. Not just to speak better, but to write better too. Every post, every talk, every stumble and restart, it’s all part of the craft now.

That’s the thing: this didn’t come from my undergrad or my MFA. It came from the streets, Harlem and Washington Heights. It’s always been in me. It came from rappers like Redman and Wu-Tang Clan, from comedians like Eddie Murphy and Dave Chappelle. It came from the boxing ring, from the Marines, from NYPD precincts, jail cells, and prison yards. It came from watching my life burn down and crawling through the wreckage to rebuild something honest from the ashes.

When I came home from prison, I had nothing. No job. No plan. No platform. Just pain, and a story I wasn’t sure anyone wanted to hear. I walked into Gotham Gym, told them who I was and what I’d been through, and they handed me the keys. Not because I was polished. Because I was real. That’s what people respond to. And that’s what I carry with me every time I write or speak.

I feel the pressure out here. The race to grow, to monetize, to blow up fast. But whether it’s Substack, YouTube, or standing in front of a crowd, this isn’t about popularity. It’s about showing your work. Showing your growth. Showing your scars. Not to get attention, but to give something real.

Because here’s the truth: nobody owes us anything. Not an audience. Not a book deal. Not a badge or a boost. And that’s a good thing. It means we’ve got to earn every single person who gives us their time. You build trust like you build muscle, one honest rep at a time.

Sometimes I feel like I’m playing catch-up with the literary world. Like I showed up late to the party wearing the wrong clothes, still smelling like sweat and iron. But then I remember, I’ve been telling stories since I was a kid. Running wild through the halls of 3333 Broadway, dodging elevator piss and chasing basketballs through broken lobbies. Watching my father work two jobs, come home exhausted, and still hold court in the living room like it was his stage. Heineken and Clamato in hand, voice smooth like a salsero, like a radio host. That was narrative. That was rhythm. That was the structure. I didn’t call it writing back then, but I had that shit. I got it from him, and from my uncles.

I learned story at home. In barbershops. On stoops. In bodegas. From the boxing gym to the precinct squad room. From my Dominican uncles snapping jokes and catcalling women with a mix of charm and shamelessness, each trying to be the loudest, the funniest, the most unforgettable. I learned timing from those punchlines. Tension from the streets. Pacing from jail, where you only have five minutes before the guard moves you. I’ve told stories in courtrooms, locker rooms, alleys, and rec yards. I just didn’t call it writing. But I’ve been writing in that rhythm, in survival mode, in memory, my whole life.

Now that I know how I know what I know, and I don’t pretend to know it all, I’m still learning every day, I respect the craft more than ever. I know what it costs. I know what it demands. I’m not bitter at writers with book deals or residencies or fellowships. I look at them and ask myself: Did I put in the hours they did? Did I rewrite that piece 25 times? Did I read it out loud, watch how it landed, and then reshape it until it hit just right? Did I bleed for every line until it sang?

If I didn’t, I can’t be mad. That’s the bar. That’s the standard. And honestly? I welcome it. Because real work levels the playing field. You either show up and put in the time, or you don’t. No shortcuts. No handouts. Just you, the page, and the truth.

This is what I know:

Writing, real writing, is work. Speaking is work. Building anything meaningful is work. Not hacks. Not algorithms. Just showing up, telling the truth, and doing the reps. If you post once a month, cool. If you post once a day, great. But whatever you do, mean it. Put your name on it like it matters.

There are people out here selling dreams. “Ten ways to grow your platform fast.” “How I got 1,000 subscribers overnight.” Nah. There’s no shortcut for the long haul. The best Substacks, the best stories, the best speeches, they’re not scams. They’re soul. They’re lived in. They’re earned.

Here’s what I’ve learned, and what I’m still learning, the hard way:

• Speak from experience, not ego.

• Write like someone’s life depends on it, even if it’s yours.

• Don’t chase numbers. Chase truth.

• You’re not entitled to readers. You’ve got to earn them.

• It takes time. A lot of time. So what? Keep going.

If you want to be a writer, write. If you want to be a speaker, speak. But more importantly, live something worth writing and talking about.

I’ll keep saying it: I’ve been a Marine. A cop. An inmate. A father. A coach. A broken man. A man rebuilding. And now I’m learning to be a writer and speaker, one sentence at a time. Not because it’s easy. Because it matters.

If you’re on this journey too, welcome. Just don’t forget: the work is the reward. And the truth hits harder than anything or anyone.